The Family Holmes: The Beginning of the End
by wen-parmadol
Summary: Mummy is in trouble, and Sherlock doesn't know who to turn to. What is he going to do? Warnings inside


The Beginning of the End

A/N: Bonjour, et joyeux noel! So the long piece I am currently working on is slow going at the moment, and I don't want to put it up quite yet until I make some headway. In light of that, I decided to gift you all with another shorter installment. Well, it's not short, but it isn't chaptered. Hope you like it!

Warning: Familial violence. I also want you guys to know that I do not approve of spousal violence in any way. I don't want to give excuses for Rutherford, nor do I think there is any excuse for abusers. I think in this story, the violence is more a side effect of lycanthropy. It's like this: when I was still watching Grey's anatomy with my stepmom, there was an army doctor who had PTSD. When he had a nightmare, he started strangling his girlfriend, trapped in his bad memories of war. She was totally justified in leaving him; she did not feel safe, and she is strong for recognizing the fact that she just could not put up with it, despite her feelings for him. At the same time, I feel like he was just as much a victim as her. He didn't want to hurt her, and he needed help. He was just as traumatized by the incident as her. That's how I see Rutherford in this story. He has no control over his disease at the moment as he is feral (the doctor's PTSD), and if he was in his right mind he wouldn't do what he does. So yes, that is my spiel, and feel free to disagree with me. Maybe I am just making excuses for an asshole. I just feel bad for Ruther like I do for the doctor, and want to cuddle them both.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, sorry. I would have made season 3 earlier.

Sherlock rattled on to Mummy about his new experiment, despite noticing how preoccupied he seemed to be. Sure, he smiled and nodded in encouragement, but his eyes kept drifting to the door of the sitting room they were in. Sherlock rested his body against Mummy on the couch as he told his story, while little Siger took apart his new remote control car, paying no attention to them.

"Mummy?" Sherlock waited until the man was looking at him. "What's wrong?"

"Oh nothing, love. Your father just got back late last night; he just seems a little upset, is all. Nothing for you to worry about. What were you saying about the comparative decomposition of long bones verses irregular ones?"

Sherlock took a deep breath to relaunch into his explanation but before he could, a roar sounded from a different wing in the house. Harry paled, standing up quickly. He pulled Siger up, despite his cries of protest, and pushed his boys out of the room.

"Sherlock, I want you to take Siger to your room and lock the door. Don't come out until I tell you to, understand? It is very important."

"Mummy—"

"Please, Sherlock, don't argue. I don't want you to be hurt. Now go, hurry."

Sherlock nodded, taking his eight-year-old brother by the hand. As they rounded the corner from the sitting room, Rutherford Holmes came barging around another, pouncing on their mother. Afraid, the boys ran. Sherlock heard Mummy say, "Ruther, please, calm down—" only to be interrupted by a roared, "Where is he?! I smell him all over MY house!" More yelling took place, but by then Sherlock and Siger were out of hearing distance.

Sherlock paced his room. So far two days had passed without any word. Wigby came to bring them food and toys to entertain Siger, though the boy still complained about being stuck in Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was worried, an emotion positively foreign to him. Almost as foreign as fear was for Mummy, he thought to himself. Mummy was never scared; that was a constant in Sherlock's life. Mummy had faced dark lords and death eaters and monsters; Mummy dealt with dangerous creatures on an almost daily basis. He was a healer specializing with magical beings, after all. The fact he was scared of Father was telling; Sherlock had heard it in his tone and seen in it his eyes. What was Sherlock to do?

"Wigby!"

With a pop, the house elf turned up. "Yes, Master Sherlock?"

"I need to get to a phone."

Wigby tugged his ears uncertainly. "Master Harry says yous to be in here."

"Yes, well Mummy needs help, doesn't he?"

Wigby nodded reluctantly.

"Then I'm going to get help. I'm going to call Mycroft." Sherlock was positive his older brother could handle it. He was capable of so many things. Sure, lately he had been distant, which Sherlock knew made Mummy sad; however, if he knew Mummy was in trouble, Sherlock knew he would come rushing back to save the day. Mycroft was so good at handling things.

Wigby looked torn, but slowly nodded. "I be bringing you to the phone and keep Master away. Wigby be keeping yous safe." With a snap, the elf and eleven year old appeared in the sitting room reserved for muggle visitors; here was where the phone was kept.

Sherlock knew Mycroft's school number by heart, and dialed it quickly. He quickly explained it was a family emergency, though the lady who picked up sounded dubious; Sherlock tended to call a lot. Nonetheless, she paged Mycroft to the office.

"Sherlock, what now?" Mycroft grouched.

"You need to come home."

"For the love of—no."

"Mycroft, listen—"

"No, you listen. You can't keep calling me like this. I know you miss me, I miss you, too, but I am incredibly busy. I have my future to consider."

"Mycroft, please—"

"You are growing up, Sherlock. Surely you don't need me to take care of every little thing any more. I can't run back home to help you with experiments or entertain you, and I'd appreciate it if you would stop telling the school it's important when really you're just bored."

"Mummy—"

"I know Mummy doesn't like that I'm away so much now, but I'm growing up. All children have to leave the nest at some point. He did it with Teddy, he can do it with me. You don't have to worry about him, Sherlock. He's a grown man."

"Mycroft—"

"Sherlock, I have to go. This lecture is really important for my upcoming exam. I'll talk to you later. Know that I love you, even if I can't be there all the time." With that, the older brother hung up, leaving the younger speechless.

Wigby was tugging his ears. "I needs to be getting you back now, Master Sherlock. Master is out."

"How is Mummy?"

"No good," Wigby said reluctantly, but at the moment Sherlock was the only one capable of calling the shots. "He hurts, Master Sherlock."

"Father left him alone?"

"For now," Wigby said. "But Master is be letting no one close to Master Harry, not even Wigby."

"He needs help," Sherlock frowned.

"No time! Master be coming!" With a snap they appeared again in Sherlock's room, only for Wigby to disappear again. Siger folded his arms with a pout.

"Where did you go?"

"To call Mycroft." Siger smiled brightly.

"He's coming to help?"

"No, he refuses to come home."

Siger's face fell, his lower lip trembling. "But Mummy…"

"He doesn't care about Mummy," Sherlock snapped. "He doesn't care about anything but his career. We have to help Mummy on our own. Wigby says he's hurt."

"What can we do? Mummy says to stay here, and we're only little still."

"You may be little, but I'm not," Sherlock said haughtily. "If no one will help Mummy, I will. You can help, though."

"Maybe we should call Teddy?" Siger asked. "He would know what to do, and he always comes when we call him, even if it's just to play."

"Yes, but the only floo is in their wing. I think we are better off helping Mummy first, and then call him. Even better, I will help Mummy while you call Teddy."

"I can't use the floo!"

"You have to," Sherlock asserted. "Mummy's life depends on it."

"His life?" Siger whispered. Surely Daddy wouldn't kill Mummy? They loved each other.

"Father is being controlled by his baser instincts right now," Sherlock nodded. "He wants to hurt Mummy as much as possible. Now are you going to help or not?" Siger agreed.

It took another two days before the boys could even get close to their parent's suite. Wigby caught them often and sent them back to Sherlock's room, or Rutherford came close to catching them. They also had to wait for the werewolf to leave Harry, something he was obviously reluctant to do. Eventually though he got antsy and made his way outside for fresh air, and the boys, hiding in a nearby cupboard, made their room.

Sherlock brought the first aid kit from his room. As often as Sherlock hurt himself with his experiments, Harry eventually grew exasperated and had a first aid kit put in the boy's bathroom so it was on hand. He made his way over to the couch where he could see his mother gasping desperately for breath. Siger made his way to the fireplace, climbing onto a chair so he could grab the floo powder.

Sherlock looked down at Mummy in dismay. What skin that wasn't covered in bruises (they were numerous and huge) was starkly pale, and he had more than a few gashes. "Mummy…"

Green eyes opened wearily. "Sherlock, you shouldn't be here," Harry whispered, both frantic and weak. "Go back to your room, I'll be fine."

"No you're not," Sherlock frowned. "Siger is calling Teddy, and I'm going to help fix you."

"Siger," Harry called wheezing. The boy turned around, floo powder in hand. "Tell Teddy…feral," The man stopped to cough heavily. "Then I want you two to go back to your room. Teddy will help me."

"Mummy—"

"Sherlock, I'm so happy you want to help me, but it's best you listen. Your father will be back any moment. You remember what I told you about feral werewolves?"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered. "They have no control over their instincts, and they become primal. Familial bonds or friendship no longer matter, and they tend to lash out." Mummy had told him everything about werewolves once Sherlock had found out he had more werewolf genes than the rest of his brothers, along with giving him numerous books on the subject.

"Right, and I don't want you guys to get hurt. Okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock agreed after a minute.

"Teddy is coming!" Siger shouted, bouncing over to them.

"Good, now shoo," Harry breathed. The boys both gave their mummy a kiss before obeying.

Later that night, Hermione and Ron came to get them. The woman wrapped them both in her arms, though they squirmed. Only Mummy was allowed to hug them. She told them they were going to stay with them for a while.

"Mummy is in the hospital," Ron said gently. "Teddy and your uncle Bill are looking after your father, and Charlie is coming to help as well. When Harry is feeling better, he will no doubt chip in as well."

"Why?" Sherlock snorted angrily. "He should just be put down."

"Sherlock!" Hermione gasped. "Don't talk about your father that way."

"Why not? He's a wild beast and he hurt Mummy. That's what they do: put down dogs that bite."

"Sherlock, your dad came across some dangerous plants on his last trip," Ron said, though at the moment, he agreed with the boy. "They forced his werewolf out. Harry will get him back in shape, and things will go back to normal."

"Your father isn't an abusive man," Hermione added. "He can't help what happened any more we can. Your mummy doesn't let anyone walk over him, and he won't start now. Your father is going to have a lot to make up for, and he's going to have to work to regain the trust they once had, but I have no doubt they will."

"And if your father hurts Mummy again, we can both hang him," Ron said.

"Now let's get packing; you'll be staying with us for a week or two, I'd imagine."

It was two weeks before Mycroft heard about what happened. He came home right away.

Harry was sitting on his couch, his two youngest on either side of him. He had a few lingering bruises and was still dreadfully pale. He had a cane as well; his left leg was having difficulty healing. He smiled wanly at his distraught son.

"Really, Mycroft, there is nothing to worry about. Everything is taken care of." Sherlock wrapped his arms around his mother, glaring darkly at his older brother. He looked guilty. Good. Siger decided he wanted to glare at Mycroft, too, and wrap around Mummy.

"If I'd had known—"

"You would have known, if you would have listened to me," Sherlock growled. "Go back to school. We don't need you here."

"Sherlock," Harry frowned. Sherlock never talked to Mycroft like that. "Be nice."

Sherlock said nothing, burrowing in closer with his angry eyes never leaving his brother's.

And thus, Mycroft was no longer God; he was fallible in Sherlock's eyes now, and altogether untrustworthy. Worse, Sherlock would never look to him again, be it for help or affection or fun.

Mycroft wasn't prepared for the loss he felt.


End file.
